


hourglass

by Insular_Keyboard_Chimp



Category: Original Work
Genre: Angry Sex, Depression, Dubious Consent, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-11-18
Updated: 2016-01-24
Packaged: 2018-05-02 07:03:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 1,442
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5238968
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Insular_Keyboard_Chimp/pseuds/Insular_Keyboard_Chimp
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The population of individuals affluent and educated enough to succeed has dwindled significantly since the turn of the century. Meanwhile, technological progress spearheaded by a small elite has dwarfed the capability of the average layman. Left adrift in a world that has lost the dignity of simple labor and common sense, men unaccustomed to the delicacies of science and professionalism struggle to survive. Tenhold Carter is one such man: dead-center in the social hierarchy and savvy enough to realize he's drawn the short straw, he's determined to adapt to a world that cruelly excluded him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Fired

Tenhold crushed his pink-slip into a jagged ball as his boss -- former boss -- delivered a cutting lecture about professional conduct while talking to customers. "It's a call center, goddammit," he seethed, "customers will fucking shout at you. They'll abuse you and you'll handle it maturely." The paunchy, balding HR Manager thrust his finger into Tenhold's face. "Maturely, you say," Tenhold intoned, "I assure you, the language I used was very mature. I wouldn't repeat it around any schoolchildren."

The manager's children were posing in a framed photograph on his mahogany desk. The three little girls were all fresh-faced smiles and immaculately coiffed hair. Their identical blonde pigtails were curled and adorned with patriotic bows; the photo must have been taken on the fourth of July. When the potbellied manager caught Tenhold staring at the photo, he slammed it face-down on his desk and retreated behind it. "I can't keep you on," he sighed, "I tried, and tried, and tried to mentor you. Help out, you know? I thought you could get somewhere, kid, but that attitude isn't going to work in your favor." Tenhold glanced at the floor sheepishly. He'd been through this song-and-dance thrice already, at various low-skill jobs, but he'd never had a boss who seemed so personally disappointed by his failure. It was embarrassing. Tenhold clenched his fist and silently waited for his dismissal. 

"Don't you have something to say for yourself, Tenhold?" his manager asked, "That's not even a rhetorical question. I seriously suggest you head to a counseling center after your visit with the unemployment office, because you cannot communicate productively. I would like you to leave now."

Tenhold left. He didn't have any personal possessions in his cubicle, so it was just him, a damning pink slip, and the sanitized hallways of a corporate park. Perfectly radiant fluorescent lights, brighter than the sun, lined the ceiling and led Tenhold directly to the elevator. Therapy, huh? Tenhold stepped into the elevator and contemplatively watched his reflection in the stainless steel door. "Hello," he said to his mirror image, "How can I help you today?" Tenhold cleared his throat and tried again, "Hu-llo. How may I service -- no -- help -- what am I doing wrong? What do you want?" Tenhold's reflection grimaced back at him. The elevator door slid open and he stepped out into the lobby, which was lit by a single enormous bulb hanging from the center of the ceiling. The artificial light stung Tenhold's eyes as he passed under it.

He left the office park and walked to the bus stop.


	2. Chapter 2

Tenhold rode the bus to his apartment on the corner of 28th St. and Maine Rd. in silence. The dingy vehicle bounced and rattled across the blacktop while plumes of white smoke puffed from the tires. An alkaline smell mingled with the scent of gasoline in the bus. Tenhold was pretty sure he was sitting in dried piss. He wished he had a car -- a license too -- but as he'd recently been fired, his chances of obtaining either were slimmer than ever. Tenhold ran a hand through his greasy brown hair as the bus jerked to a halt outside his apartment. He followed a throng of passengers outside and skulked into the six-story tenement building. 

His abode was a minuscule two-room affair in the corner of the fifth floor. The further up you went, the more dilapidated the building seemed to become. On his way up the rickety elevator, Tenhold watched passenger after passenger depart to their respective floors. One, two -- so far, so good. Three, four -- brown splotches on the ceiling from the old men who smoked in the hall. Five -- a radiator was blown off the wall and left in shambles on the floor. A swaying light bulb hung overhead on a long wire. In front of apartment 502 were stacked beer bottles left for the garbageman to collect. Apartment 503 was Tenhold's. He could often hear his neighbor causing a ruckus in the evening, occasionally with a call girl. In the morning, a procession of people -- usually women -- would exit the building with hungover sluggishness.

Tenhold turned his key in the lock and entered his apartment. It was surprisingly tidy for a slum. Tenhold kept the dishes washed and the carpet vacuumed despite the apparent futility in doing so. Dust would fall onto the carpet whenever his upstairs neighbor walked too heavily and leaves often blew in from the shattered section of the kitchen window, but Tenhold made an effort to keep his surroundings clean anyway. He wished he had boards to nail to the broken window. A draft was blowing in and chilling him. He settled for duct tape. Tenhold cut off a strip from a roll in his kitchen cabinet and taped several layers over the opening in the windowpane. "Good as new," he thought. 

Undoing the buttons on his felt pea coat, Tenhold sat on the ratty couch and flicked on the television. He wished he lived in the suburbs with all of the happy people. The rich, the successful, and the beautiful lived there, in two-story mansions and comfortable townhouses with dogs, newspaper boys, and an astonishing lack of smog. They worked steady jobs in the day and went to posh bars in the evening with their coworkers and wives. Tenhold never had such a privilege. He was a low-achieving student from a lower-middle class family in the working district of Detroit. They left the city when Tenhold was young, but the city stayed with him. He could never adjust to the sleepy lullaby of middle-America after the raging orchestra of the inner-city had thrummed in his ears. Tenhold made his pilgrimage to New York, the loudest city in America, when he was seventeen. He hadn't returned to his family home since.


	3. Chapter 3

Tenhold slept fitfully that night on his couch. He had a cot opened in the corner of the living room, but the couch proved more comfortable. Dust mites had chewed holes into the cot anyhow. When Tenhold awoke, it was to the din of the garbageman collecting waste from the nearby restaurants. Tenhold often dumpster-dove there when his pantry was empty. Usually, he found an edible carton of discarded takeout or a half-eaten pizza to sate him. There was no real indignity in dumpster-diving, as everyone did it from time to time, but Tenhold hesitated before soiling his clothing with the rancid slurry. It was probably the smell, he figured.

He might have to dive tonight. With five-hundred dollars in his wallet, and over half of that devoted to his rent, Tenhold didn't have enough to spare on groceries. He winced as his stomach growled. Buttoning his coat, he left the apartment to dine on literal junk food. He marched out the door and locked it behind him. Predictably, the procession of boozy prostitutes and dealers was leaving apartment 502. Tenhold heard his neighbor coughing loudly as he slammed the door behind them. The man had a nasty case of emphysema. Tenhold waited until the women boarded the elevator before he decided to take the stairs, lest he risk being propositioned. Even if he had enough money for drugs or girls, Tenhold doubted he'd want either. Half the product peddled in the neighborhood was laced with paint thinner and petrol. He'd seen a man with scabs clumped on his face from shooting up lying on a vent outside of the apartment once. The man was picked up by the police later that day. He was probably, quite literally, rotting away in a county jail cell now. The women were just as unwholesome. A clean girl was a rarity, and it usually meant she was a runaway. Tenhold wanted nothing to do with that nasty profession. 

He'd have to wait until breakfast hour had passed before anything edible was tossed into the dumpsters. Tenhold loitered outside of a Chinese joint with a newspaper dispenser mounted against the wall. For a quarter, Tenhold bought a copy of the local daily paper; there would surely be a help-wanted section. The headlines were gloomy murder announcements and politics, so he flipped directly to the jobs. Most of the advertisements were for college-educated positions: medical technology and sales. There were a few ads for taxi drivers, but Tenhold didn't have a license. There was one promising ad, however, for a bookkeeping position at a local law firm: Burgess & Harvey. They welcomed interns and students, it said. They offered on-site training. Tenhold carefully folded the paper and placed it in his pocket. He heard the rumble of a garbage can being dumped into the dumpster. He'd be having lo mein today, apparently.


End file.
